Doomsday
by SerenLyall
Summary: The year is 2015 AD, and the world is still in shock from the first sudden and brutal attack of what they are classifying as 'extraterrestrials.' Their cities are smoldering ruins, their sky turned black with smoke and ash. But there are some who have not yet given up hope. And now a new quest has begun in a small, broken diner, a quest to find a lost loved one (AU)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** U nin. That's "not mine"...in Sindarin. (I'm running out of ways to effectively say that Lord of the Rings, and everything pertaining to it, belongs to someone other than me. So I'm resorting to using other languages now ;) )

**Rating:** Teen. Rated Teen for some mild violence and disturbing images.

**Time frame:** 2015 AD (as in yes, 2-and-a-half-ish years in the future)

**A/N:** Obviously, this is an AU. The vague blur of this idea has been haunting me for quite some time, and then today my dad was watching Battle: Los Angeles (the new version) in the other room. And it was all just like BAM HELLO! I have a few ideas of where I can take it, but as of yet, I'm really not sure if I'm going to continue this. I want to see if there's enough interest in such a tale as this before I commit myself to writing (yet another) WIP. So if you want me to continue, then PLEASE review or alert or something (reviews would be most appreciated out of the aforesaid options ;)). If there doesn't seem to be very much interest, I'll probably just leave it as a oneshot, and keep the rest in my own head :) Anyway, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this somewhat (somewhat? Try VERY) strange tale.

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**Doomsday**

_**"It has been nearly four days since the world was attacked by what has now confirmed to be an extraterrestrial invasion. As the flames finally begin to die down, rescue workers are hoping to soon be able to risk the rubble of what is left of New York, Atlanta, and Boston in search of survivors."**_

"Here's your coffee sir." He tore his eyes away from the grime-caked and cracked television mounted onto the wall, and turned to look at the young man who had approached him, bearing a small tray on which sat a single pewter mug. "Can I get you anything else?" the man asked, putting the tray down on the tabletop.

"No, thank you," the customer replied with a small smile, and picked up his mug. The waiter turned and left without another word.

The customer sipped his coffee carefully, and carefully bit back a slight grimace at the overwhelmingly bitter bite. Still, it was better than nothing, he decided, and he should not be at all complaining, considering the events of the last week.

_A testament to the Americans and their dependence on caffeine_, he mused wryly, taking another small sip, _that the world as they know it has effectively ended, and yet they continue to keep their coffee shops open._

Still, although seemingly ludicrous, this situation was far better than the all-consuming, mass hysteria that had gripped many, if not most, other parts of the world. _Better than most parts of the nation_ he amended grimly.

His gaze drifted back to the television on the wall, eyes narrowing slightly, the better to discern the picture behind the random bursts of static.

_** "The death toll world-wide continues to rise, climbing from the millions into the billions. **_

_** "Refugee camps in Kansas and Nebraska continue to swell as the thousands of now-homeless seek someplace to shelter for the oncoming winter. New camps are being established by the National Guard in northern Texas, Tennessee, West Virginia, and New Mexico; however the precise location of those camps has yet to be released to the public."**_

He sighed heavily into his mug. Nothing good would come of the mass refugee camps – only an increase in violence and thievery, not to mention that, without much of the technology and medicines that all had become accustomed to having at fingertip reach, disease would be rampant.

_We are going to need him now more than ever, which is saying something,_ he thought, and then promptly fell still, the coffee turning to sludge on his tongue. With a suddenly tight throat, he forced himself to swallow, and carefully placed the mug back down atop the table.

The scene on the TV screen flickered and changed, now showing photographs of pulverized concrete and twisted metal, flames blurring the image with a haze of brilliant orange, and smoke and drifting ash giving the entire thing a pathetic gray cast. There was no sky in the picture – only blackness dashed with gray and the hellish light of the reflection of fire.

The reporter's voice came in over the slide show.

_**"What you see now are satellite images taken of Atlanta, Georgia not three hours ago. As you can see, the area is still highly unstable and toxic; however, rescue workers are hoping to move into the northernmost suburb in Forsyth County by nightfall."**_

The screen went black for a moment, and then a second slideshow flickered up onto the screen. If possible, these pictures were even worse and more terrifying than the ones of Atlanta. Like Atlanta, the smoke and ash were visible, choking the air even in the photograph with a cloying, suffocating hold. Fire licked at the edges of the frame and was buried at the heart, an intense red glow suffusing and staining all that it touched.

Yet where Atlanta had been blasted to the ground, the photographs of this city showed that parts of it were still standing. Burned out husks of buildings stood to the sky like skeletons pretending to still be alive, and what had been utterly destroyed – torn to the ground – looked almost as if it had been done by hand, slowly, purposefully – personally – rather than simply having been leveled in one fell swoop.

That was somehow more terrifying.

_**"These images, taken of New York City a few moments ago, have shattered the hope that rescue teams will be able to proceed any time soon. The fires of the first city that was struck by the invading forces have not yet begun to peter out, despite the predictions of the scientists working in conjunction with the United States Bureau of Reconstruction."**_

_He_ was there, somewhere. Somewhere… But where? Buried under rubble, his body twisted, broken, and bleeding? No. No, he would not believe it. He refused to believe it.

_Damn it Elrond,_ he thought savagely, _why did you have to insist on being there of all places? What did you hope to accomplish? You knew what was coming…_

More pictures were now appearing on the screen, only these were not of burned and burning rubble. Corpses now filled the frames, some civilian and others dressed in BDUs. Yet no matter what their dress, all of their expressions were the same – their eyes wide in glassy, eternal fear and their mouths locked forever in a scream. Blood was splattered all around them, dripping down the broken cement blocks and coating toppled cars with splashes of crimson paint.

"It's all pretty gruesome, huh?" The waiter was back, and was standing a few feet away, arms crossed as he gazed up at the television with sick fascination.

"Yes, it is," he replied, tearing his gaze away from the screen. "Thankfully not many places were hit as hard as New York City."

"We were hit hard enough here," the young man replied quietly. "I can't even begin to imagine…" He fell silent awkwardly, as if embarrassed by the emotion evident in his voice.

"Yet you survived, as did your community," the customer said softly, standing and turning to place a hand on the young man's shoulder comfortingly. "And that, now, is all that matters. The past is the past, and you must learn to leave it as such."

"You really believe that?" the young man asked, finally bringing his eyes up to meet the startlingly blue gaze of the customer.

"Aye," he said softly after a long pause, and for just an instant, the waiter thought he sensed an ancient pain and weight of knowledge behind the word.

"So," the young man said quickly, attempting to mask his surprise, "You are just moving through?" he asked.

"Yes," the customer said, his voice returning to normal.

"Are you on your way to one of the refugee camps?" the waiter asked, frowning slightly.

The other shook his head. "No. I am looking for someone."

"Who?" the young man asked curiously. "You don't have to tell me…" he added hurriedly, then trailed off.

"A dear friend," the customer replied. "…A father." The last bit was spoken so quietly that the other could barely make out the words, but he seemed to understand that they had not been meant for his ears. He looked away, glancing back to the television, blushing ever so slightly.

_** "Scientists are now predicting that the clouds of ash and smoke that blanket much of the East Coast will take at least six months to begin to dissipate, rendering much of the coastland unlivable. Likewise, the West Coast – California, Oregon, and Washington – have been deemed HotZones, and have been deemed unfit for human habitation. More to come on the HotZones within the hour."**_

_** "And this update just in! A survivor from New York has been reported found wandering the countryside. Our very own Andrea Marks found him staggering through a field fifty miles from New York City, and managed to catch this on tape!"**_

Both were now watching the screen intently, one out of mere curiosity, and the other with something much more desperate than mere interest.

A blurry, grainy video recorded from a cheap, handheld camera came on the screen. The image was shaking up and down nauseatingly, as if whoever was carrying it was running.

_"Hey, hey!"_ _the woman behind the camera was shouting. The jerky movement ceased abruptly, and the listener could hear the recorder's heavy breathing and slight wheezes. The camera suddenly swung around, showing a rather short, stocky man whose clothing was hanging off of him in tatters. Blood and soot streaked his face, covering his fair skin in a dark mask. _

_ "Who are you?" the woman asked, coming a little bit closer. The man only stared at her numbly, eyes wide and unfocused. "Hey, are you okay?" the woman asked gently. An arm appeared in the view of the lens as she placed her hand on his shoulder._

_ The man started, and looked at her, his eyes finally focusing in on her, and then flickering down to the camera._

_ "Fine," he grunted, but then immediately began to shiver._

_ The woman behind the camera seemed to turn her head around, for what she said next sounded fainter and more distant, as if being shouted the opposite direction._

_ "Hey, I found someone over here! I need a medic!"_

_ "Easy," she said, turning back to the man in front of her. He was slowly sinking down into a crouch, his bloodied hands reaching for the soil beneath his feet. "Can you tell me what happened?" she asked, kneeling along with him and supporting him with her hand all the while. The man began to shake a little harder. "I'm sorry," the woman said hurriedly, "I didn't mean-" The man cut her off._

_ "No, no. The world needs to know." His voice, like his hands, was shaking, as if he could barely control it. He cleared his throat painfully, and then began to speak once more, his rough voice evening out as he spoke._

_ "I…I don't know how long ago it was, how many days. But…it just started out as a normal morning. And then the clouds came. It was so unexpected; just a wall of thick dark clouds that rolled in over the bay and covered the sun. I was in my apartment when the clouds came, and I went outside to get a better look. I watched the cloud bank roll in with my neighbors from across the hall. It was beautiful…at least, it was at first. And then…And then the explosions started._

_ "We heard something, something that sounded like a boom, or a bang, or something. At first, no one thought much of it – it is…was…New York after all. But then there was another, and another. And then a second later, the building a block over had burst into flame._

_ "No one could see where the explosions were coming from. We all ran, most of us back inside, and a few to their cars. I think most of us thought that it was a terrorist attack – I know I did. At least at first._

_ "And then…and then the…the things started coming." He hesitated here, his voice dying. "They were like nothing I'd ever seen before. Big, and covered in this armory stuff that gleamed, and they carried these gun things that had blades – like bayonets or swords – on the end. And the way they howled…" the man convulsed, shuddering and clutching his arms around him._

_ "Shh," the woman murmured, rubbing his arm soothingly. "You don't have to go on." The man seemed not to hear her, or perhaps he was simply ignoring her._

_ "They were coming through the streets, howling and screaming, slaughtering anyone in their path. And then they started breaking into the houses. I climbed out of my window and down to the street. I didn't know what else to do…I just couldn't let myself be caught in my own home and killed. And then I started running._

_ "I don't know how long I ran. But then I was trapped. There were a whole bunch of us. The subway had collapsed, leaving a huge crater on one side, and then there were buildings blocking us in. And then the monsters – aliens, or whatever they're calling them – found us. _

_ "They just started killing. And I thought surely I was about to be dead. But then…but then…something miraculous happened. Something saved us._

_ "Out of nowhere, these three beings dropped down into the mass of monsters, and just started fighting them. Within minutes, all of the monsters were either dead or were running in fear from the others."_

_ "These…these other beings," the woman asked, sounding more than a little shaken by the story, yet overcome with curiosity, "Who were they?"_

_ The man shrugged, and smiled. "I don't know. Maybe they were angels. But I swear, when they came down and started fighting, it looked like they were glowing. All I know for sure is that they saved us."_

_ The camera suddenly jolted back._

_ "Excuse me ma'am," a disembodied voice said curtly, and then the camera was jerking rapidly again as the woman stood. An instant later, it went dark as the recording was cut off._

For a long moment, both who were watching the TV in the small diner were completely silent, staring fixated on the temporarily black screen.

"Wow," the young man said finally. "I wonder…I wonder if that story was real. I mean…" he trailed off, and looked at his companion to see what he thought.

The customer was still staring at the TV, although he seemed not to be actually seeing the broadcast as it switched back, once more, to the female reporter. He seemed to be lost somewhere far away in thought.

"Hey, you alright?" the waiter asked.

"Mmh?" the other man asked, starting, and turning. "Oh. No, I doubt that the man's story was true – or leastways not completely accurate. When one is afraid, their minds play strange tricks on them."

"If you say so," the waiter replied, although he sounded highly skeptical. He shot the other a strange look, and then hurried to collect the mug. "Well, if you're done with your coffee…" Receiving a nod, he lifted the now-cold mug and turned to leave. "Thank you very much," he said, turning back one final time. The customer nodded his head ever so slightly in response.

He hesitated for only a moment after the boy had disappeared behind the counter. All weariness that he had felt previously seemed to have been burned out of his body. Now all he could feel was tension and the thrumming of nerves.

While he did not believe that the man's story _was_ completely accurate, still…there was enough potential truth in what he had said, and he felt his spirit both lift, and plummet at the same instant – a singularly strange feeling. Yet with that feeling came another, more powerful emotion – determination. He would find his friend, his brother…his Lord. He _would._

He threw a ten dollar bill on the table, and then turned to go. Without a single glance behind him, Glorfindel strode from the diner and out into the grey-hued morn.

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**A/N II:** As I said above, if you want me to keep writing, then please leave a review or something so I know that there's interest in this.

Thank you for reading! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Ergh...Glorfindel isn't mine. Elrond isn't mine. Motorcycles and New York City aren't mine. I have no idea who cement is patented to. But pretty much everything else is mine! Including this really crazy, wacked, confusing plot ;)

**A/N:** First off, I would just like to say thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and alerted! The response to the first chapter was positively overwhelming! I was blown away. So thank you AGAIN to everyone who reviewed, etc. All of your input was extremely encouraging, and it's thanks to you that this second chapter was ever written. My sincerest apologies to everyone who I did not have the chance to reply to in person. I've tried valiantly, however Real Life thought it had better plans for me and my life (namely Finals). All of your encouragement and input was extremely welcome, and I positively loved hearing from you. So special thanks goes to **quaff**, **Silverstorm13**, **Song in the Woods**, **DecoraRae**, **CelticRemedy**, **Crookneck**, and my anonymous **Guest** (and again, my apologies for not responding in person).

So, I hope that this comes to at least a few of you still on 12/21/12! I tried valiantly to get it uploaded earlier, but we had company over, so my day was filled with cleaning, and then company. Whether it's still the 21st, or the 22nd by now, though, I'd just like to dedicate this chapter to the "End of the World."

I hope that you enjoy Chapter 2! And I would love you if you would leave a review on your way out. I'm still actually quite insecure about this story (I think because it's just so...different, and far out there), and so any and all feedback would be loved and cherished. I hope that you enjoy!

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**Chapter 2**

Glorfindel killed the motorcycle engine and sat up straight, allowing his gaze to wander over the scorched landscape sweeping around him. Everything was blackened or singed, and a thin cloud of eddying smoke and ash swirled through the air a dozen feet above the ground. The sky itself was black, thick clouds obscuring the sun and blue sky and casting a dark shadow across the world below. The soil itself looked blasted, and the straggly grass that had survived incineration or smothering was yellow and sickly, withered. The few trees that were yet standing were bare skeletons, their naked, blackened fingertips stretching uselessly toward the sky, as if searching for the warmth and light that they knew should be coming from above.

The land had been beautiful and green only six days before. And now it was dead and burned. Glorfindel's gaze fell, and for just a moment, he allowed himself to mourn for the beauty and the life that had been destroyed. It would be many, many long years until grass once again grew in this dead land.

The moment passed, and Glorfindel pushed aside his thoughts of remorse. He did not have time to dwell on what was lost. That which could still be saved did not have time for him to squander it needlessly on things that could not be changed.

Again, Glorfindel's gaze raked the landscape, however this time he was looking for something in particular. He almost missed it, so obscured was the distant object by the haze; but see it he did. Glorfindel's lips twisted up into an unhappy grimace.

Glorfindel kicked the engine back to life and swerved back out onto the road, although he kept his speed down. He had been told that the military camp holding the perimeter did not take kindly to anything untoward happening near or around the checkpoint, and that included unwanted visitors making an abrupt and showy appearance.

If it came down to it, Glorfindel was sure that he could make it over the blockade set up around the city – no blockade was perfect, and especially when it was quarantining such a large area as New York City. However, such a feat would both be risky, as well as provide complications in the future, such as if he was forced to seek medical help immediately upon finding those who he sought. He prayed that such would not be the case, however the likelihood of such a possibility was depressingly high. Other complications would most likely arise as well, complications that he had no inkling of as of yet – such was always the case, was it not? And besides, Elrond had always been adamant that they, even as elves, go through the proper channels and processes, the more likely they would not be discovered for who they were. No human thus far had made it over the blockade, and so it would draw far too much attention if he himself managed it.

No, it would be best if he could obtain official permission from the authorities to enter what had been declared the Scorched Zone. He knew that, and because of that had decided that he would make a valiant attempt. He just really didn't want to.

The road curved around and began to rise slightly, rising to meet the bridge that spanned the wide river that cut a wide track through the blasted landscape.

Glorfindel finally gave into the overwhelming temptation and, switching gears, hit the throttle. The machine responded instantaneously, shooting forward like an arrow from a bowstring. The acrid wind spun around him, pulling a few locks of hair free from the horsetail tied at the base of Glorfindel's neck, and sending them flying about his face. The air bit at his eyes and nose, causing them to sting and water, but he relentlessly pushed the discomfort away, blinking the tears out of his eyes the best that he could.

The large bridge sprawled before him, straight and miraculously unbroken despite the debris – small chunks of cement, the odd abandoned car, and twisted metal – that lay scattered about. Glorfindel did not slow, but swept onto the bridge, easily swerving around a twisted car that lay in his path.

For just an instant, as he swung close to the guard rail at the edge, Glorfindel glanced down into the water below. It was dark, nearly black, and it frothed and foamed as waves beat at each other mercilessly. The water looked sickly, as if it had been poisoned. Glorfindel looked away, disturbed.

Glorfindel slowed as he emerged on the other side of the bridge. The military camp was just ahead, rising dark and forbidding through the drifting smog, the artificial lights set up around the perimeter shining mutedly, as if through a veil. He approached slowly, eyeing the encampment warily. He did not know why, but he had a strange sense of foreboding that grew more intense as he crept closer.

Long ago he had learned that when such feelings were made so readily clear it was wise to heed them. Glorfindel came to an abrupt halt, quickly putting his foot down to steady himself. There was something wrong; this was a bad idea.

Glorfindel put the motorcycle in reverse and leaned down, preparing to make a fast and hopefully unnoticed escape. The idling engine sprang to life, and the tires span, taking a second to gain traction on the gravel strewn pavement.

"Stop!" The command cut through the air, even breaking through the noise of the motorcycle engine. Glorfindel looked up and could just make out half a dozen blurred shapes coming toward him through the haze, guns against their shoulders and muzzles pointed directly at him.

His eyes narrowed, and for a second Glorfindel considered taking his chances of escape in any case. Before he could make his decision, however, the haze parted, and the soldiers neared, the targeting lasers mounted on their weapons playing neatly across his chest.

Glorfindel shut off the engine and sat up slowly, lifting his hands in a show of peace.

"Who are you?" the squad leader asked harshly, and Glorfindel realized that it had been him who had ordered him to stop as well. "What is your name?"

"My name is Gabriel Williams," Glorfindel replied coolly.

"Let me see some identification," the leader snapped.

"Very well. I'm just going to get my wallet," Glorfindel promised, and slowly reached into his jacket, taking out his leather wallet. He opened it and pulled out his driver's license, then held it out for the leader to inspect. The plastic card was taken quickly, and then cursorily inspected.

"So, Gabriel," the leader said, handing Glorfindel's driver's license back, "What is your purpose in coming here?" He sounded only minimally friendlier.

"I've come to look for a friend," Glorfindel replied. "He was in New York when the attack happened."

The leader eyed Glorfindel suspiciously. "No one is allowed into the Scorched Zone," he reminded Glorfindel. "No one," he reiterated.

Glorfindel shrugged, feigning embarrassment. "I had hoped…" he trailed off. "No, you're right, I know. It was only a fool's hope. I'm sorry for wasting your time," he added, and made as if to restart his engine. He hoped that the leader was convinced.

"Not so fast," the leader warned.

"What? Why?" Glorfindel asked, and he felt his stomach drop slightly. This wasn't looking good.

"I'm bringing you in," the leader answered. He motioned for his men to circle around the motorcycle, then nodded to Glorfindel. "Get off," he ordered.

Glorfindel slowly climbed off of his motorcycle, pulling the keys from the ignition as he did so.

"What about my motorcycle?" he asked. The leader shrugged.

"It will be brought in later," he said calmly. "Now let's go."

Glorfindel reluctantly followed the leader toward the encampment, his boots crunching on the pavement with each step. For a flash, he thought that it sounded like he was treading on bone. It took an effort of will for him to shove such morbid thoughts from his mind. That had been happening a lot lately, he realized, and he grimaced to himself. He was not usually so grey of spirit – in fact, quite the opposite. Yet the world as it was now – covered in ash and smoke –reminded him strongly of the end of his first life – of Gondolin and its burning downfall.

Usually when such memories would threaten to overwhelm him, Glorfindel would always find that Elrond was mysteriously close at hand, ready and willing to draw him forth from the darkness that clung to his heart. But now he was not, and Glorfindel found that he had yet another reason to find his friend. As if the others had not been enough.

Within moments the squad was nearing the camp, the gates sliding open as they approached. The wall itself was a solid ten feet high with barbed wire looped through brackets just beneath the walkways. Heavy machine guns were mounted on the wall top every twenty paces or so, and spotlights had been fixed to the wall halfway between each piece of weaponry. Sentries in full uniform patrolled the wall, rifles cradled in their arms. Despite himself, Glorfindel was rather impressed with the entire setup, although overall it looked much more like a camp preparing for war rather than a simple military checkpoint.

They passed through the gate, and instantly it began to slide shut behind them, the sound of compressed air being released accompanying the sound of metal sliding along metal. Glorfindel glanced back, just in time to watch the automatic locking mechanism engage. He suddenly felt trapped, and the feeling of foreboding mounted.

The inside of the camp was no less surprising than the fortifications. Glorfindel had been expecting tents, or perhaps small, portable living quarters. Instead he found himself walking into a bustling base. The buildings, although small and rather hastily constructed, were made of plywood and cement blocks, sandbags shoring up the bases. The roads were sludgy ash mixed with the mud, and there were deep furrows cut into the mess.

Glorfindel was escorted down the main thoroughfare toward the building located at the center of the compound. It was taller than the other buildings, standing at two stories tall, and it looked much sturdier than its counterparts as well. There were no windows, however, and just looking at it made Glorfindel feel uneasy, as if he were looking at a prison.

There were no steps leading to the front door, only a mashed down courtyard of sorts, and two armed sentries standing to either side of the door. They both saluted as the squad leader entered the building, the rest of his squad compressed until they were in a single file line, three behind Glorfindel and two ahead.

To his surprise, there were no artificial lights inside the building. Instead, lanterns had been hung from the ceiling at frequent intervals, filling the narrow corridor with weak yellow light. Every so often, another hallway branched off of the main corridor, and Glorfindel saw that they, too, were lantern lit.

The squad leader stopped in front of the last door at the end of the corridor, just before the stairs. He rapped his knuckles sharply against the wood, and then stood silently. He didn't have to wait long.

"Enter," a clear voice bade from within. The squad leader opened the door and motioned for Glorfindel to enter, then followed him in. The door swung shut behind them, leaving the rest of the squad standing in the hallway.

A tall, willowy man looked up from behind a desk crammed against the far wall. His pale blue eyes were nearly white in the light of the battery-powered desk lamp, and as he put down the pen he had been holding, Glorfindel caught sight of scarred knuckles.

"Matthewson," the man sitting behind the desk greeted the squad leader, "Report."

"Sir," Matthewson retorted, and saluted crisply, "This man was intercepted as he was nearing the gates. He requested permission to enter the Scorched Zone, Sir."

The commander's gaze slid to Glorfindel, and he carefully inspected the newcomer. Glorfindel met his gaze calmly. For an instant, the commander looked a little surprised, and Glorfindel mused that he must not be accustomed to people being able to meet his eyes unwaveringly. He couldn't quite stop the small grin that quirked his lips at the thought, a grin which grew just a little wider when the commander himself dropped his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact himself.

"What is your name?" the commander asked.

"Gabriel," Glorfindel replied automatically, "Gabriel Williams."

"Well, Gabriel," the commander said stiffly, "No one is permitted to enter the Scorched Zone. Do you understand?" he asked.

"Yes sir," Glorfindel replied, although the words tasted bitter in his mouth. "Now am I free to go?" he asked after a moment's silence, his voice deceptively calm and emotionless.

The commander shook his head. "No," he replied. "You will stay in this camp until you have been thoroughly questioned, and it has been ascertained that you are no threat."

Glorfindel's eyes narrowed. "You cannot keep me here against my will," he warned, his voice low.

"You will be free to go once you have been cleared," the commander replied.

"What do you mean?" Glorfindel asked, his brow deepening into a frown. The commander did not reply. Glorfindel took a step forward, and found that Matthewson was suddenly blocking his path, a glare on the human's face.

"Please, Gabriel," the commander said, and he stood, "Do not make any trouble. It will not turn out well – for anyone." Glorfindel stiffened, but he made no more move toward the commander.

"Matthewson," the commander finally intoned, turning to look at the squad leader.

"Yes Sir?"

"Please escort Mr. Williams to a room," the commander ordered.

"Yes Sir," Matthewson replied, and stepped out of Glorfindel's way. "If you'll come with me," he added, and motioned for Glorfindel to follow. He did so, albeit stiffly, and only after fixing the commander with one final, hard stare.

The commander refused to meet his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Glorfindel isn't mine. Elrond isn't mine. At this point, pretty much everything else is. But don't worry, that's gonna change...

**A/N:** First of all, I would like to apologize for having taken _so _long to get this update finished. I have literally been working on this since January, but much like Darkness in the Forest, I have been suffering from severe writer's block. As you can see, I finally overcame it! And after this chapter, the much more fun (at least to write) stuff will begin. So...As usual, special thanks goes to **cai-ann, She Elf of Hidden Lore, wyverndragon, Crookneck, **and** Kyle** for reviewing. As for all of you who favorited/alerted, my thanks to you as well. To all of you lurkers, thank you for reading, and I hope that you will at least consider taking the time to review. I admit, some of the reason I think I had a difficult time writing this was because of the positively overwhelming response to Chapter 1, and then (by comparison) the relatively low interest shown in chapter 2. I just got...a bit discouraged. In any case, please enjoy!

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This is in response to Kyle's anonymous review:

No, I am not going to give a chapter going into the details behind this story. And yes, I do have my reasons. First of all, this is Earth as we know it (well...not quite, seeing as it takes place three years in the future). As you may or may not know, Tolkien wrote of Arda as if it was Earth's history. Indeed, in the Book of Lost Tales, he speaks of how on occasion children travel to Tol Eressea in their dreams, which is an island off of the coast of Valinor, and how a tower (I'm afraid I can't recall which one), is a remnant of the Elves from when they inhabited Europe. Explanations for why there are Elves on Earth (even after we know that some of them sailed, such as Elrond, and others that will be introduced eventually) are on their way, as are explanations as to just what these aliens are, and how they pertain to the Elves, and Lord of the Rings. It is simply not in my habit, or my writing style, to reveal everything all at once in a big chunk of information, especially outside of the story itself. Indeed, much of the explanation will come through the humans discovering the existence of Elves (at least, that is the way I have it planned now). More canon characters (many more, I might add) will be introduced at a later time, but for the moment, they are simply not a part of the tale that I am telling. That being said, I am glad that you think it is a good story, and I hope that you can understand the reasons behind why I do what I do.

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**Chapter 3**

The room to which Matthewson led Glorfindel was small and dimly lit but surprisingly comfortable. A small bed – little more than a mattress set up on a box – was shoved in one corner, a neat pile of blankets sitting stacked on top of it against the wall. A chest sat at the end of the bed, and a chair and a low table took up most of the remaining space. The only light in the room was shed by a small lantern sitting upon the tabletop, filling the small quarters with a weak glow.

Glorfindel turned from his inspection of the room and fixed the much smaller man with a piercing stare. "When will I be allowed access to my motorcycle?" he asked. "I have bags in the holding compartment."

"Your bags will be inspected thoroughly and, if we find no contraband within them, we will return them to you."

"Contraband?" Glorfindel asked, crossing his arms and leaning back against the table. His brows lowered into a frown. "Unless I'm much mistaken, in accordance with my rights as a citizen of the United States of America, I can deny you the right to lay hands on and open any of my possessions," he said lightly, although there was a steely warning tone underlying his words. "You would need a search warrant to do so without my permission – which I am not granting, by the way."

"We are a world at war; your personal liberties are swayed in favor of the protection of the people and the nation," Matthewson replied coldly. "You are hereby confined to these quarters until further notice," Matthewson added. "A guard will be posted outside of your door for the duration of your confinement, and will escort you wherever you go. Speak with him if you need something."

"And how long will this confinement last?" Glorfindel queried, bristling. Glorfindel hated to be confined, no matter how comfortable or unthreatening that place may be. Matthewson regarded Glorfindel steadily, and Glorfindel maintained his gaze without waver. After a few seconds Matthewson looked away, shifting uncomfortably.

"A day, perhaps two," he admitted, and his voice carried none of the cold calculation of before. "At least until you have been questioned and determined to not be a threat." The soldier turned, hesitated as if he was about to say something more, and then hurriedly left, closing the door behind him. The latch settled into place with a click, and then the low murmur of voices as Matthewson addressed the guard that Glorfindel presumed had been assigned to guard him.

Glorfindel was both still and silent for a long moment as he leaned against the table, arms crossed over his chest. His thoughts tumbled back and forth, confusion and worry mingling together, making it difficult for him to think clearly. He briefly wished that he had asked Matthewson what he had meant by the term "threat." No matter, he would ask later.

Finally, Glorfindel pushed himself away from the table and crossed to the low cot. He lowered himself down onto the thin mattress and then stretched out, back against the wall, head leaned back and arms still crossed tightly over his chest. His feet dangled off of the end, nearly touching the floor, until he tucked them up, knees rising and blocking his view of the wall beyond.

There was something odd taking place within the walls of this base, although what that was Glorfindel did not yet know. He could feel it. It itched at him, like a flea digging beneath his skin between his shoulder-blades, just where he could not quite reach to scratch. It danced tantalizingly just out of the reaches of his mind, nimbly dodging his probing thoughts.

Something was wrong. There was something about this place felt disturbed, as if the very walls had been constructed out of shadow, or of deceit. This place was something more than a search-and-rescue base, as it had been proclaimed; it was not the place of safety and of refuge that it had been ordained. The way the way it had been fortified, the suspicion on the part of the guards, the attitude of the commander as he had spoken with Glorfindel…

Glorfindel's gut twisted, a he felt a strange sense of a looming warning settling over his heart. And he knew that he had found the root of his misgivings. But what had grown from those roots, Glorfindel found that he as of yet had no idea.

~oOo~

Glorfindel sat on the edge of his cot, lobbing a small ball at the wall. It collided with the flimsy wood, resulting in a hollow _thwuck_ sound before it bounced off to smack back into Glorfindel's palm. His fingers tightened around the small sphere, and then an instant later the ball was in the air again, careening toward the very same wall.

Again and again Glorfindel threw the ball, the force behind each motion mounting with each repetition. Finally, he misjudged the trajectory, and his fingers closed only on thin air. The ball went spinning wildly past his head, to rebound off of the wall behind him. It went crazy then, flying off into a corner, where it bounced back toward the ceiling, and then finally fell down to the ground and rolled beneath the table.

Glorfindel growled deep within his throat, but he did not make a move to retrieve his ball. Rather, he allowed himself to flop back onto the thin mattress beneath him, the thumb of his left hand rubbing the palm of his right, which was smarting ever so slightly from the sting of the ball as he had caught it.

He had no way to know how long it had been that he had been in the room. The guard outside of his room had brought him food three times, but Glorfindel's inner clock told him quite plainly that it had been more than a day – not that he expected three meals a day any longer, though. He had asked for the ball – or something similar – when the guard had come in the second time, and he had returned a quarter of an hour later with the rubber bouncy ball.

Disgruntled and feeling restless, Glorfindel rose and paced about his tiny room. Two steps carried him from the edge of the bed to the table, and another two from the table to the adjacent wall. Altering his direction, Glorfindel began to pace in a circle, hands jammed down into his pockets. _I have been kept in prison cells larger than this_, he groused internally.

More than anything, Glorfindel longed to be moving on, to be getting on with his quest. As the hours had dragged on, it had become more than just wishing to get away from this doom-riddled place and as much a need to continue his search. Each hour he spent trapped in this blasted room could be another hour that Elrond lay injured and dying and without help. With a sigh, Glorfindel ruthlessly shoved such thoughts away – they would do him no good, and would only serve to make him more agitated and likely to do something stupid.

After the third time he had been brought food, Glorfindel had momentarily considered simply forcing his way out. He had no doubts that he would be able to escape the base, especially if he was able to get his hands on a knife or a gun. But such actions would more than likely leave a trail of corpses, and that was something that Glorfindel was loath to do, even if it would mean his freedom. He did not like killing, especially humans, and he would not lower to such standards unless it was absolutely necessary. He wasn't that desperate just yet.

A knock on the door interrupted Glorfindel's thoughts and his pacing, and he turned. "Enter," he called, and then watched as the knob was turned and the door pushed open. It was the guard, but he wasn't holding a bowl of thin soup and a slice of toast.

"Captain Rogers is ready to see you," the man said. "If you'll follow me?"

Glorfindel walked to the door, which the guard opened wide enough for him to pass through, and then followed him down the hall without a word. Now that he was actually moving, now that something was happening, he felt himself significantly less stressed, despite that he was going to have a discussion with "Captain Rogers," who he could only assume was the one who would decide whether or not he would be released.

The guard lead Glorfindel outside and across the compound to a small, one room building by the wall. He ignored the ashen mud that clung to his boots as he cut across the furrowed thoroughfares. Glorfindel was slightly more conscientious, stepping around the largest of the puddles when he could, and when he could not, purposefully remaining light on his feet so as not to sink down into the sludge.

The guard rapped on the door, and waited for an authoritative "Come in," before he turned the knob. Then he motioned for Glorfindel to enter.

"I will be here to escort you back to your room after you finish your interview," he told Glorfindel. Glorfindel only nodded, and then stepped inside.

The room was surprisingly well lit – especially when compared to the rest of the base – with nearly a dozen lit candles sitting on boxes and crates throughout the room. The table that was serving as a desk was covered with neat stacks of papers and little piles of carefully capped pens, and there were three candles sitting side by side, the wax dripping down their sides forming an oozing puddle that, when dried, would cement them together.

The man sitting behind the table was something of a surprise to Glorfindel. He had expected a rather mousy, narrow-eyed, dark-haired man with puckering lips and thin bristly hair. Instead, this Captain Rogers was widely built and well-muscled, with sandy blonde hair that threatened to flop down over his forehead, expressive blue eyes, and an air of calm command – although not one of needed control – hung about him. Glorfindel found himself respecting the man, at least a little, especially when he looked up and smiled courteously.

"You must be Gabriel Williams, yes?" Rogers asked.

"I am," Glorfindel replied carefully. While he may have afforded some small degree of respect to this man, that did not mean that he did not watch him carefully, nor was he unwilling to revoke what respect had been given.

"Please, sit," Rogers said, motioning to a tall box sitting off to one side. "I apologize for lack of proper seating, but supplies are rather scarce at the moment, as I'm sure you understand." Glorfindel complied with a small nod, then stretched his feet out in front of him and crossed his ankles in a nonchalant manner. "My name is Captain Mark Rogers," he said, extending a hand to shake Glorfindel's.

Glorfindel took his hand, and smiled slightly in greeting. "I would introduce myself, but you seem to know who I am already," he said congenially. Rogers laughed.

"Yes, well General O'Neil asked that I speak with you."

Glorfindel nodded. "He said something about determining that I was not a threat," Glorfindel said. "What did he mean by that?" he asked.

Rogers shook his head. "It's nothing to worry about," he assured Glorfindel. "It is more of a precaution than anything, really. This attack was a complete surprise, and even though the…aliens, or whatever they are, seem to have disappeared, we are being very cautious of people coming in and out. I hope you understand."

"Ah, of course," Glorfindel replied, and grinned to indicate that he believed the other's words. And if he was not more than twelve thousand years old, he likely would have believed Rogers. But he _was_ over twelve thousand years old, and as such had a good deal of experience in knowing how to tell when someone was lying, or at least knowing when they were not telling the full truth. And he could tell, by the way Rogers shifted unconsciously after his statement, by the fast blink and the slight dilation of his pupils, that he was hiding something.

Rogers' voice brought Glorfindel back to the present. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions Mr. Williams."

"Just Gabriel is fine," Glorfindel said. "And yes, go ahead."

"Very well then, Gabriel," Rogers nodded. "Why is it that you are here?"

"As I told…Matthewson, I believe his name was, I am looking for a friend. He was in New York when the attack came."

"You are aware, are you not, that all travel within a ten-mile radius of New York City is forbidden?" Rogers asked.

"Yes, I was aware of that," Glorfindel replied. His voice grew deeper, and filled with a hard edge with his next words. "But nevertheless, I must find him."

Rogers stiffened ever so slightly at the change in Glorfindel's tone, but then he visibly relaxed once more and he forced a smile onto his face. "I see," he said. "Might I ask who it is that you are searching for, and what connection you have with him?" Rogers looked up and squarely met Glorfindel's eyes.

"I am looking for an old friend," Glorfindel said by way of an answer. He would not give any more information, and after a moment Rogers looked away, conceding to allow Glorfindel to keep that information, at least, to himself.

"Hm. And where were you when the attacks began?"

Glorfindel raised his eyebrows at the question, but answered it nonetheless. "I was in New Orleans on business."

"New Orleans was one of the cities attacked, was it not?" Rogers asked, and Glorfindel could hear a note of surprise in his voice. "How did you escape?"

A strange look flashed across Glorfindel's face, but then it was gone, hidden behind the mask of Gabriel Williams once more. He shrugged. "I was able to get out before it got too bad."

Flashes of memory pricked at his thoughts, but he doggedly pushed away the images of burning buildings as they collapsed; of the men and women running, screaming as the attackers came on, bursts of energy coming from their weapons and their blades slashing; of the blood that coated the streets as he clove one of the beast's head in with the blade of his sword; of picking up the wailing girl and then turning to join the others as they ran from the impregnable wall of monsters. He could not deal with the guilt at the moment, and as soon as he took the time to think of what had happened, he knew that he would have no other option.

"Then you were one of the lucky few," Rogers said. "New Orleans was destroyed, much like Atlanta. The National Guard was only just able to enter the ruins last night." Glorfindel did not say anything in response.

"What were you doing in New Orleans before the attacks came?" Rogers asked after a moment, when it became clear that Glorfindel was not going to say anything else.

"As I said, I was there for business."

"And what is it that you do?"

"I work for the Tirno Science and Technology Corporation," Glorfindel replied. "I was there to meet with the board of directors on the sixteenth."

"The TSTC?" Rogers asked, as if he did not quite believe Glorfindel. "The TSTC that was just introduced the first clean, self-renewing energy source?"

Glorfindel grinned humorlessly. "Yes, _the_ TSTC. Do you know of any others?"

Sudden understanding drifted across Roger's face and lit his eyes. "Gabriel Williams. I thought I recognized that name from somewhere. You are the head of public relations, aren't you?"

Glorfindel nodded slowly. "I am."

"Why did you say nothing before?" Rogers asked. "If we had known who you were, we would not have apprehended you as we did."

"I do not flaunt my title, as I do not wish to be widely known or recognized," Glorfindel answered wryly. "As you likely know, the company and those who work for it enjoy keeping their privacy. We enjoy being able to walk among others without drawing undue attention to ourselves."

Rogers shook his head. "Of course. My apologies, sir. I think that is all that I need from you," he added. "Please, feel free to move about the base as you wish. I'm afraid I still must speak with General O'Neil before you are cleared. You will be notified when you are allowed to leave."

Glorfindel rose, Rogers following suit, and then offered his hand. "Thank you," he said, shaking the captain's hand. "I hope that everything will be sorted out soon."

Rogers nodded curtly. "I will do my best." He opened the door to his office, and allowed Glorfindel to precede him out. The guard hurriedly stood straight from where he had been leaning against the wall, and saluted crisply.

"Lieutenant, show Mr. Williams around the base and escort him wherever it is he wishes to go?"

The guard looked slightly surprised, but did not question the order. "Yes sir," he replied, and then saluted again as Captain Rogers turned to return to his office.

"It was good to meet you Mr. Williams," Rogers said, and then disappeared inside.

"If you follow me, I'll give you a tour," the lieutenant said, motioning with one hand behind him.

"That would appreciated, thank you," Glorfindel agreed, and then stepped forward to follow the guard as he began to lead the way down the muddy street.

As they walked, Glorfindel looked up. The thick clouds seemed to be darker than they had been before, and Glorfindel suspected that they were lower as well. Thunder grumbled in the distance, the echoes reverberating through the ground, and Glorfindel fought to keep himself from shuddering at the feel of unease that shook through the ground.

Even the earth was wounded, and that was worrisome indeed.


End file.
